Mayor's Discipline: Two Domestic Discipline Short Stories Read online

  The Mayor’s Discipline

  Two Domestic Discipline Short Stories

  by

  Renee Rose

  The Mayor’s Discipline, featuring Spank and Run and Bootcamp

  Copyright © June 2016 by Renee Rose

  All rights reserved. This copy is intended for the original purchaser of this e-book ONLY. No part of this e-book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without prior written permission from the authors. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the authors’ rights. Purchase only authorized editions.

  The story Spank and Run originally was originally published by Lazy Day Publishing in the anthology Coming to Terms. Bootcamp was originally published as Unmet Desire by Lazy Day Publishing in the anthology Milestones.

  This e-book is a work of fiction. While reference might be made to actual historical events or existing locations, the names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Spank and Run

  Chapter One

  Crap—late to meet the mayor.

  Claire rolled through a stop sign and gunned her Jeep Cherokee, causing the wheels to spin in gravel. She zipped up Blueberry Hill Drive. It was already 5 p.m. Shit. She'd had a dental appointment on the other side of town and they'd run late. Now she was late to meet her last client of the day, Luis Valdez, the mayor of their small New Mexican town.

  She didn't have Mayor Valdez's phone number programmed in her cell phone to reschedule their weekly Friday evening appointment. She'd been giving him Feldenkrais lessons for six months, after a ski accident requiring arthroscopic knee surgery had crippled him.

  Of course, this situation would have to happen with him—the one client who already caused her so much anxiety she'd considered refusing to see him. Not that he was difficult. He was just…intimidating. He showed up for his sessions in starched shirts and pressed pants, with an air of quiet self-assurance that made her feel like a bumbling schoolgirl. It didn't help that he was extremely good-looking and, since his well-publicized divorce after his wife left him for a woman last year, single. He'd made her so nervous the first time he arrived for an appointment, looking around her living room/somatics studio with cool appraisal.

  “I'm just seeing clients out of my home until I've grown my client base enough to afford a separate space,” she'd blurted.

  He'd raised one eyebrow, which unfortunately, made her continue to blather. “I know it's technically a violation of city code, but I never see more than five clients per day, so it's not that much traffic coming in and out of a residential area…”

  The corners of his mouth had quirked at that, revealing deep dimples and lines that crinkled around his dark-lashed eyes. “Don't worry,” he'd said with amusement, “I'm not going to turn you in.” She'd cringed at her gaffe, feeling like a fool then, and had been trying to make up for it by acting ultra-professional ever since.

  She pulled into her gravel drive now, relieved his Lexus SUV wasn't parked in front yet. Jumping out of the Jeep, she jogged toward the door and then skidded to a stop.

  What the—?

  Her door hung off its hinges, the frame busted in. Stunned, she walked forward slowly.

  Oh no…NO!

  Her place had been burglarized—bookcases were knocked over in the living room, and her flat-screen television was missing from the wall. She walked cautiously down the hall. The bathroom was ransacked—her personal items strewn across the floor, drawers standing open. Further down, her bedroom was absolutely destroyed—every drawer had been pulled out of the toppled dresser, every box yanked from the closet. Even the under-bed storage boxes were out, their contents emptied on the floor.

  “Claire?”

  She gasped and jumped at the booming voice of the mayor.

  “Claire?” He sounded alarmed. “Clara?” He switched to the Spanish pronunciation of her name.

  “I'm here!” She went back out to the hall and met him in the living room.

  He stood surveying the mess, his tall figure making the room look small. “What happened?”

  “I don't know! Someone broke in, I guess.” Panic thinned her voice.

  “Have the police been here?”

  She looked around dazedly at the disaster—even some of her artwork was missing from the walls. “No, I haven't called them yet,” she said hollowly. “I just got here.”

  “You haven't called them?” He grasped her elbow and steered her back out the front door before she could answer. “Claire, you never enter a crime scene before calling the police. The perpetrator could still be in there!” He already had his smart phone in hand, dialing 911 with his thumb.

  Her eyes swam—being scolded on top of the shock and violation of the break-in was too much.

  Seeing her tears, he immediately pulled her in against him with one arm, while efficiently giving the details to the emergency dispatcher on the cell in his other hand. He smelled clean and masculine. There was no trace of cologne, but a faint woodsy scent clung to his clothing.

  She didn’t mean to get cuddly with the mayor, but his embrace was so inviting. Her hand came up to the hard muscles of his chest and she leaned her forehead against his muscled shoulder, blinking into his shirt until she realized she was probably staining it with mascara. She pulled away abruptly.

  Oops. She cringed, dabbing at the damp brown splotches with her finger. “I'm sorry,” she croaked.

  He ended the call, dropped his cell phone in his pocket, and pulled her back against him with both arms. “Are you all right?” His voice sounded deep and rich like honey, with a note of tenderness that surprised her.

  A shiver ran down her spine that had nothing to do with the break-in. She melted into the warmth of his embrace. Why had she always felt so stiff around the mayor? Right now, in the circle of his arms, she felt nothing but safe and warm and protected. Comforted. She nodded into his chest and sadly, he released her.

  “It's a horrible feeling to have your home broken into.”

  She looked up into his dark-lashed brown eyes, drawn in by their warmth. Why had she never noticed it there before? She’d always been too nervous. With great effort, she marshaled her thoughts. “Look,” she said, taking a deep breath. “I'm sorry, but it doesn't seem like I'm going to be able to give you your session today. Do you want to reschedule?”

  He quirked one eyebrow with his usual unfathomable expression and she was reminded why he never seemed accessible to her—she couldn't tell where she stood with him. Worse, she always had the distinct feeling he knew something she didn't—something about her.

  “I'm not leaving yet.” The corners of his lips lifted as if he found her amusing.

  “Well…thanks. But you don't have to stay. The police are on their way, right?”

  As if on cue, two squad cars came zooming down her lane with their lights flashing, arriving less than five minutes after his call. Apparently there were perks to having your emergency called in by the mayor of the town. They left the lights flashing, creating an eerie nightclub sensation of swirling lights against the darkening sky and the adobe wall surrounding her casita.

  “I'm staying.”

  A tiny thrill of satisfaction shot through her. The mayor was staying with her. For her emergency. Why did that please her so much?

  The police got out and ignored her, immediately questioning the mayor instead. He gave them the facts as effici
ently as he had over the phone, switching to Spanish halfway through the conversation so when he introduced her to them, she was struggling to keep up.

  “Conocen a Claire Romero?” he asked them.

  “Mucho gusto,” she mumbled, stepping forward and offering her hand—she'd understood that much. Her last name may be Romero, but her father hadn't spoken Spanish to her or her brother at home, and her mother was of German and Irish heritage. She'd grown up in Albuquerque, as part of a generation whose parents wanted them to integrate. Here in Taos, it was different. The Hispanic population were descendants of the original Spanish settlers and had enormous pride in their heritage. It was practically a requirement that you have a Spanish last name to hold a government office or run a successful business here. She was learning to enjoy the perks it seemed to offer in terms of referrals and steady clients.

  The policemen, who the mayor introduced as Officer Arthur Mora and Officer Glen Vasquez, shook her hand and eyed her curiously, as if wondering whether she was the mayor's new girlfriend. “You wait here while we check it out,” Officer Mora told her.

  She nodded mutely and sank onto the wooden bench outside her adobe casita. The mayor sat companionably next to her, leaning back and crossing his long, elegant legs as if lounging near crime scenes was the most normal of affairs for him.

  She stole a look at his handsome profile. He resembled Benicio del Toro, wearing his hair a bit shaggy, which was ultra-sexy when coupled with the button-down shirt. He had eyes the color of milk chocolate and dimples that appeared when he flashed his white-toothed smile. She would guess him to be in his mid-forties, which wasn't that much older than her thirty-three. His gaze slid to hers and, caught peeking, she immediately flicked hers down to her shoes. He put an arm behind her on the bench and gave her shoulder a squeeze. It was a casual gesture, yet felt too familiar considering their relationship. He'd never been the sort of client she hugged at the end of a session—they had always been on strictly professional terms. This breach of his usual standoffish demeanor made her pulse quicken. What had caused the change?

  The officers returned about ten minutes later, addressing the mayor again, despite the fact that it was her home that had been burgled. It was your typical machismo, and it grated on her feminist nerves. To her surprise, the mayor looked over and gave her a quick wink, as if he understood her frustration. Her irritation evaporated as abruptly as it had appeared.

  “Ma'am, I wouldn't stay here alone tonight, if I were you—unless you can get a new door installed,” Officer Mora said, addressing her directly for the first time. “Do you rent this place or own it?”

  “I rent,” she moaned. And her landlord lived in Colorado, which didn't bode well for getting the door fixed quickly. Her belly tightened painfully as she realized her predicament—she wasn't safe to stay in her own place, but if she left, all her remaining property would be vulnerable to further thieving. Panic closed her chest, renewing the sense of violation and anger toward the hoodlums who had put her in this position.

  “Well, you'd better call your landlord to fix it, and find someone to spend the night here with you so you're not alone.”

  “She won't be alone,” the mayor said with great authority, shocking her right down to the soles of her feet. “I'm spending the night.”

  ~.~

  Claire put her hands on her hips, indignation flashing in her eyes. He could almost see her independent, big city tough girl battling with common sense or maybe—he hoped—interest. He was sorry for her misfortune, but he'd been waiting for an opportunity like this to crack the professional facade of the alluring Claire Romero.

  She clamped her mouth shut, and thanked Artie and Glen for their help, watching them go before turning back to him with a determined air. She was 125 pounds of hellcat, clad in the kind of jeans that were actually form-fitting leggings, so he could see every perfect line of her shapely dancer's legs and ass. She tossed her dark bob out of her face, and opened her mouth. “Why did you say that? You know those guys think we’re sleeping together now, don’t you?”

  She jerked her thumb toward the driveway where the patrol cars had been parked.

  He hid a grin. Just hearing her say the words we’re sleeping together had his cock thickening. “I’m sorry—I didn’t mean it to sound that way. I’ll be sure to explain next time I see them.”

  “Explain what, exactly?”

  “The situation. I'll sleep on the couch. Unless you have someone else you can call to come over—?”

  It was too dark to be certain, but he thought she blushed, which he found intriguing. She shook her head slowly, conceding. “No. But you really don't have to —”

  “Don't be ridiculous,” he cut her off, ushering her inside.

  She stopped and surveyed the damage, looking lost.

  A fresh surge of protectiveness made him wish he could buffer her from the shock and fear she must be experiencing. He wedged a kitchen chair under the busted door handle to keep the door from swinging open and then began to pick things up, righting the bookshelves and replacing books.

  She followed his lead, but her eyes had a glazed look, as though she weren't really thinking, but simply acting automatically.

  When the living room/studio was clean, he asked, “How about I call Pizaños for pizza?”

  She looked at him gratefully. “That sounds great.”

  “What do you like on your pizza? Or wait, you're a dancer, does that mean you're vegetarian?”

  She laughed. “No, bring on the meat.”

  He flicked an eyebrow in a subtle acknowledgment of what probably wasn't a Freudian slip, and was amused to see another slight blush.

  But he'd made her nervous, because the next thing out of her mouth was intended to shut him down.

  “You don't really need to stay over, Mayor Valdez. Won't your kids miss you or something?”

  “Luis,” he corrected her. “And no, they're with their mom for the weekend.” He called and ordered a large sausage and jalapeño pizza and moved into the kitchen, which had cabinet doors standing open and chairs overturned. A few cupboards had their contents spilled out onto the counter. He righted the chairs.

  “How long have you lived alone?” He knew a fair amount about her, just from small town gossip. She'd been a dancer in New York City, then became a Feldenkrais practitioner and moved to Taos. He'd never heard of Feldenkrais before she was recommended to him, but after one session, he was completely sold. It was so much better than the painful physical therapy he'd been through. She would make tiny movements with him on the table, and then he'd stand up and his entire alignment had changed. It wasn't just his knee that felt better, but his spine seemed longer, and he had greater flexibility in his hips and hamstrings.

  “Well,” she said slowly, trailing him into the kitchen and standing in the doorway with the same glazed look. “I had a roommate most of the time I lived in New York, but I did have my own place for a few years there, and now I've been alone here for two years.” He looked up to catch a sad look on her face and realized the question had been somewhat loaded. He veered toward a safer subject. “So you were a dancer there?”

  She crossed the room to stand next to him, taking over the replacing of her food in the cabinets. “Uh huh. Until I got hit by a taxi.”

  “What? You're kidding!” He'd never heard this part of her story.

  “Yeah, that's how I became a Feldenkrais practitioner. I shattered my pelvis and they said I'd never walk again. But here I am—thanks to Feldenkrais—walking, even teaching some dance, although it's not New York City.” There was a wry note to her last words and he recognized the bitterness of a shattered dream.

  “Hey, it's better than Española!” he joked, referring to another small New Mexican town. He put his hand on the small of her back. “You're a fighter.”

  Her large brown eyes met his for a long moment and he saw vulnerability in her face. She gave her head a quick shake. “Anyway, I was never a bigtime dancer or anything. I was
just studying and auditioning. Getting pick-up work with the industrial gigs.”

  “Industrial gigs?”

  She gave a wry grin and waved her hands in the air, fingers spread wide as she mimicked a few showy moves. “You know, for pharmaceutical presentations and such.”

  He laughed. “You mean you did Viagra dances?”

  She grinned and started doing a big dance move—it looked like tap dance—with her arms whirling around, chanting, “Get it up, get it up, get it up!” Her feet scuffed the floor again and she posed in a big finish, arms outspread.

  He roared with laughter and she grinned, relaxing out of the pose.

  “Was that for real?”

  She smiled and shook her head. ‘No, but it was stuff like that. The pay is good, but it doesn't satisfy the soul, if you know what I mean.”

  “How about now? Can you satisfy your soul here?”

  A shadow crossed her face and she shrugged. “I like teaching. But I miss performing.”

  “Why don't you? Can you perform here?”

  She made a snorting sound. “Along with my teenage students?”

  “Well, how about by yourself? A solo. Or a one-woman show.”

  Her arm brushed his as she leaned across him and he had to resist the urge to put his hands around her small waist, just to see how it felt. He wasn't ready to date again, not really. But if he were…Claire Romero would be at the top of his list. Hell, she would be the only one on his list. She was everything he liked in a woman—smart, beautiful, capable. And she was a Latina to boot, which meant his mother might actually be friendly to her, a feat which she never managed with his ex-wife.

  Claire deflected his suggestion. “I don't know...”

  The kitchen restored, they headed down the hall. Claire stopped to pick up the bathroom, and he went on to her bedroom, where the dresser had been toppled. He heaved it into place and started replacing the drawers. Then he stopped.